"... I shall never tell him the truth—never, never. I may beat about the bush, but I shall always leave myself a loop-hole to crawl out of. And yet if I could only consult him—consult some one—find out what I really ought to do. But no, no, I don't dare risk it; it would be terrible to be advised—just the way I don't want. I must decide on some plan myself. But—Heaven knows what!" She stood for a while motionless, gazing helplessly into a mist of perplexities.
The little Sèvres clock on her mantel-piece roused her as it struck the hour, and she began hastily to dress. She drew the rippling waves of her hair into the fashion that Mrs. Bobby liked, she put on her favorite gown, a charming creation of white lace and chiffon, relieved by touches of pale green; she tried conscientiously to look her best, but still her cheeks were pale, there was the strained look in her eyes.
She was about ready when Mrs. Bobby's maid came to help her, bringing a box of flowers that had just that moment arrived. Celeste, a thrifty person, regarded them with some disgust. She could tell them, these gentlemen, that it was of little use to waste their money on Mademoiselle, who did not care about, sometimes hardly glanced at, the flowers which some other young lady would give her eyes to receive. Ah, well, that was the unequal way in which things in this world were arranged. Celeste disposed of the matter thus, with a philosophic French shrug of the shoulders.
But there was no counting on such a capricious person as Mademoiselle. To-night, as she glanced at the card in the box, she blushed beautifully, took out the flowers with care, and read with eager eyes the few lines that the giver had scrawled, apparently in great haste and in pencil:
"This afternoon I was unspeakably rude—even brutal. Forgive me—what right had I to take you to task for your actions? My only excuse is that I care—I can't help caring—so desperately. I send you white roses—they suit you best. You wore one that I gave you—do you remember?—but probably you don't—the first night I saw you. If you are very merciful, if you accept my repentance, wear one to-night—in token of forgiveness."
"In token of forgiveness?" Elizabeth pressed one of the exquisite, creamy-white roses against her glowing cheeks. "You wore one the first night I saw you—probably you don't remember?" Ah, yes, she remembered—but that was different. She could not wear one now. "Yet only in token of forgiveness?" With a quick, passionate gesture, she raised it to her lips, then fastened it carefully amidst the lace of her gown.
Celeste, whose presence she had forgotten, bent down discreetly, with a suppressed smile, to arrange the folds of her train. Ah, clearly, after all, there was one gentleman who did not waste his money on Mademoiselle.
"Madame wished Mademoiselle to look well to-night," she observed, after a moment. "I think Madame will be satisfied."
Mademoiselle glanced at herself again, and started as she looked. Could this brilliant young beauty, her small head proudly erect, her eyes brilliant, her cheeks aflame, be the same woman whose haggard reflection had stared back at her from the same mirror only half-an-hour before?
She did not feel like the same woman. The doubts, the fears, which had beset her then seemed mere chimeras, the fancies of a morbid brain. She felt gay, confident, strong enough to conquer even fate. Celeste was right—she looked her best. Mrs. Bobby's words rang in her ears. "Such trifles have their effect—even on a paragon." And then again—"He would think you perfect as you were if—he loved you." "No, he need not think me perfect," she murmured to her mirror, "but he must—he shall think me beautiful. And that is more to the point," she concluded, as she gathered up fan and gloves and left the room.